And Seem a Saint
by I'm Iller
Summary: A collection of short ficlets of Salai, featuring a whole slew of other characters.
1. Three's Company

Leonardo's face was a mixture of surprise and horror when he looked up over the back of the couch. Ezio froze, unsure of what else to think or say—words never seemed to fly from his mind like it did now.

A slender hand curled into Leonardo's half-undone shirt, and soon, Salai's full and curly head made an appearance. Unlike Leonardo, nothing covered Salai's shoulders and chest, and the boy regarded Ezio as if the assassin had woken him from a nice dream, with lips pursed, nose scrunched.

"Did I interrupt something?" Ezio asked.

Leonardo immediately said, "No!" with his face still flushed, but Salai broke in with a sour, "Yes."

When Leonardo looked, aghast, at Salai, the boy was still staring at the assassin by the door. "We're busy," Salai said, licking his lips slowly. "Unless you plan to join us, get out."

Leonardo covered Salai's mouth with a palm, tried hard to cover the rude and brash words that had left the apprentice's mouth. Worried, Leonardo looked apologetically at Ezio, but the assassin only chuckled.

"And if I take you up on that offer, Little Devil?" Ezio pressed.

Salai shrugged, and then looped his arms around Leonardo's neck so he could peer slyly over one of his bare arms. "More fun for me and _Maestro_."

Leonardo whispered a scolding, "Salai…" and the boy looked up into the artist's face, brows together. "Do not bother Ezio with our affairs."

A wicked spark melted into Salai's eyes, though the only show of it was the twist of his lips upward. "You want it," Salai whispered, inches from Leonardo's lips so that his warm breath tingled over them, so that his eyes could be half-lidded while he played with the sensitive hair at the nape of the artist's neck. He could feel Leonardo's muscles tighten under his thighs thrown over the man's waist. "I do not hear him objecting…"

A moment's pause, and then Leonardo was kissing Salai back down into the couch as the sound of buckles unclasping murmured from the door, as booted feet carried a certain assassin over. The boy gasped as he let himself be tickled by beard on his bare skin, by lips suckling soft bruises there, and calloused hands exploring low on his hip.

Flushed, but with a foxish smile, Salai hungrily watched Ezio drop the white hood back from over one of Leonardo's shoulders.


	2. The Early Bird Gets the Worm

Leonardo nearly dropped his cup in surprise. "Salaì," he said, the name's end higher in an almost-question. "What are you doing up this early?"

"Running your errands, of course, _Maestro_." Salaì turned the corner of the table and plucked up a few grapes. Slowly, a small grin came to his face.

Honestly, Leonardo doubted that running errands was a part of Salaì's trip through Rome, but the polymath couldn't be terribly ill with the boy considering that said errands usually got completed—even if they weren't completed until the stroke of midnight or later. "What if I have no errands?" Leonardo challenged with the hint of a smile.

Salaì shrugged and ran a hand through his, for once, lax curls. "When do you _not_ have errands, Master?" Salaì slid a grape between his lips. "It is payment. It is commissions. It is a page of information for the assassins. I know you have errands." An expectant hand lifted, and Salaì gave Leonardo the best charismatic face he could muster.

A few seconds passed. "Fine," Leonardo said, relenting. He moved over toward the long table by the wall while Salaì leaned against the back of the couch and consumed grapes. "I need you to take these to Ezio."

Salaì's face flattened, but he appeared to be listening when Leonardo turned around. "And what if Ezio isn't there?" asked Salaì.

"Then bring them back," Leonardo said, rolling the small parchments up into a hollow scroll case. He handed them over to Salaì when he neared, and then furrowed his brows seriously. "These only go in Ezio's hands, do you understand? And don't get caught with these, Salaì, please." He placed his palms gently on both of Salaì's cheeks. "You will put a lot of people, including yourself, in trouble."

A hint of a grin played along Salaì's lips as he passed the last grape between them. "You will die early if you keep worrying so much, Leonardo," he said. When he turned, he tucked the scroll into the purse tied to his waist. "I'll be back."

Leonardo was already frowning in worry. "Stay out of—" The door shut with a heavy, wooden clank. "—trouble." Leonardo sighed.


	3. The Trouble With Love

Leonardo didn't know how many times he has scolded Salai, scolded the boy about God knows what. Stealing. Cheating. Having a brash mouth. Mostly stealing.

But even when the boy is sitting, sagging, in front of him with shoulders down and lips frowning, Leonardo just can't bring himself to enact the punishment he should. The knot growing on Salai's high cheekbone makes Leonardo's stomach tighten with worry, though he knows that this isn't the worst that could ever happen.

"Salai…" he sighs, kneeling down so he can scoop the boy's face into both his hands. "I told you not to go out, and you disobeyed me."

Salai averts his eyes.

Brushing his thumbs over his apprentice's jaw, Leonardo leans in to place feather-light kisses over the battered model face. His lips caress the shining, red welt—I'm sorry, he wants to say, he wants to assure Salai—and then the lips press a kiss against the boy's pouting lips. Perhaps, Leonardo thinks, he can kiss away all of the wickedness in Salai. Perhaps he can make the boy out to be a gentleman, but he knows that's far from possible.

The way Salai breathes, "Master," and then tilts that auburn head to look up at him from thick, blonde lashes makes Leonardo's spine ripple with heat. It's all he can do not to eat Salai alive from the inside of that waiting mouth.

It's all he can do to keep the boy's moans quiet from the ears of the street.


	4. Misery Loves Company

Salaì was pushing the thick-bristled brush back and forth across the floor when Filippo opened the door and stepped inside. It was an odd sight for Filippo; the assassin apprentice almost started in surprise. Salaì's rusty-colored curls were pulled back into a ponytail, he was barefoot, and he was dressed in worn under clothes.

_And_ he was cleaning the floor with the same vigor with which he gambled.

Brow twitching, Salaì paused and glanced up. "I can't play today," he said, his voice sounding tight with bitterness. And then he went back to pushing the brush across the floor.

Filippo wasn't sure what to say at first. After a moment, he finally managed a, "I never thought I'd see the day when Princess Salaì became Cinderella."

Salaì's face washed with flatness. "You have your master to thank for that," he said through the _rsh-rsh_ of the brush.

Interest peeked, Filippo tilted his head. "_Maestro_? Why would you be cleaning Leonardo's floor for—"

Out of the shadows of the cornered alcove, Ezio melted suddenly into view with his arms crossed over the broad armor of his chest. He offered Filippo a questioning raise of his brow. "Did you come to distract Salaì from his chores?"

"Master!" Filippo started, but his expression rapidly changed to something sheepish and apologetic. "I would never try to take Salaì away from his chores!"

"Whose side are you on?" Salaì piped up, having stopped his cleaning. He narrowed his eyes at Filippo, and looked just like a woman who had been left out of a tea party. "You're supposed to be helping me get out of doing this! Work some charm!"

Looking uncertain, Filippo glanced back at Ezio. The assassin master leveled Filippo with a challenging gaze, but didn't budge from his place or uncross his arms.

"Ah, Master…" said Filippo, twirling two index fingers with thought, eyes looking down. "You know how terribly fragile Princess Salaì is and how horrible he wrinkles—he already has so many on his face, would you put more on his hands? Perhaps you should allow him to stop for today…"

Ten minutes later, Salaì looked up from scrubbing the floor and glared. Filippo sheepishly grinned from his own place on the floor, though he didn't stop pushing the brush.

"Very good, _idiota_," Salaì hissed. "Now we're both stuck doing chores."

"Perhaps it'll work off some of the weight you've gained," Filippo teased under his breath, and he was decidedly happy when Salaì looked down-right annoyed.

A few seconds later, Salaì was trying to scrub the wet brush against Filippo's cheek. The assassin apprentice jerked back and shot the other a look. Salaì grinned.


	5. Working Like A Dog

"What are you doing here?" Ezio asked when a pair of slender arms encircled his neck.

"I _live_ here," said Salai, resting his face in the crook of his elbow, leaning far enough forward to spy the Assassin's face.

Ezio glanced over. "Shouldn't you be doing your chores?" Slowly, Ezio lifted his hand, waving a florin between his fingers. "You don't get rewarded for nothing."

Eyes alight, Salai perked from his slouch. His gaze flickered back and forth from coin to Assassin. "I did my chores," Salai said assuredly. He snapped his hand out to grab for the coin, but Ezio easily caught his wrist. "I will tell Leonardo you are tempting me with money," warned Salai.

"You don't deserve it," Ezio finally said with a smirk. "You steal from my friend constantly, and you haven't done anything worth getting this."

Tightening his arms around Ezio's neck, Salai pressed his lips against the Assassin's ear. "I can show you how well I can earn it, though," he whispered.

A smirk curled Ezio's lips up. "So you will."

Hours later, Salai had begrudgingly done a number of things, all of them which he not only didn't enjoy, but some he never wanted to do again. To earn a coin, Ezio placed a florin on Salai's nose, forcing him to stand as still as stone until allowed to get it. For another coin, Ezio requested that Salai beg like a dog, whining and all. For another coin, Ezio tossed a florin onto the roof so that Salai could fetch it.

When the boy wobbled back down, unable to find the fallen florin, Ezio was all smiles.


	6. Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty

The way the early morning light swept over Salai's sleeping form brushed a kind of boyish warmth over Leonardo's chest and face. Devilry was gone while Salai slept, his breathing soft and slow. He was, instead of a demon, an angel with face framed by loose curls. And _so_ young.

Leonardo trailed a finger along the curve of Salai's side, and Salai murmured sleepily.

This boy, this boy barely seventeen, had bound him into some curse he wasn't quite sure what to call. A Purgatory—no, a Hell. A Hell, the worst Hell, which masqueraded as Paradise. He didn't know if _love_ could be a demonic spell, but perhaps the love of men, brethren, boys, perhaps that was the curse for his genius.

_You can be great_, he swore he heard the Devil Salai say when they met, the creature disguised as a baby-faced ten year old whose sneer was hidden behind an innocent smile, _but you will love me, love others like me, forever_. It hadn't even been but a whisper in his mind. _You can tell no one, but your heart will break, as lovers' have broken before you, from Godly discrimination._

And he did—he loved the wicked, but beautiful, boy who appeared to him in a field with smutty hands and a canvas. Il Salaino.


	7. Devil's Ambition

Salai was, in fact, a big instigator in a lot of things that went on in secret. Leaned flush against Leonardo in the chair, back to chest, Ezio thought Salai looked like a spoiled prince sitting on a throne. He wondered if Salai was the wicked bridge that connected him and Leonardo together, or if Leonardo was the patient structure that connected him and Salai. Their mutual triangle of affairs had become increasingly more woven together, so much that he could rarely see Leonardo without Salai being involved or vice versa.

"Kiss him," Salai said, reaching out to pull him down closer by the front of his robes. Their faces hovered together, unmoving. "Kiss him, or"—and Salai turned to brush his lips over Leonardo's cheek—"I will kiss him for you."

Agitation pushed into Ezio, and jealousy bubbled in the back of his throat. He supported himself on the arms of the chair, leaned in past Salai's expectant face to capture the waiting artist's lips. Salai coaxed the kiss deeper by caressing fingers along their jawline.

Like a puppet master, like a devil wielding pieces in a game of chest, Salai moved them together, twisted them and manipulated them into forbidden, delicious positions.

Salai was, in fact, a big instigator in a lot of things that went on in secret.


	8. Live in This and Dwell in Lover's Eyes

Leonardo pauses at the door, not quite far enough in to let it swing closed.

The white sprawled on the couch is so obviously Ezio, Leonardo knows, but it is what else is on the couch, how they are on the couch that takes Leonardo by surprise. Ezio seems content with dreaming, lying back against the arm with his face turned toward the back of the couch. On top of him, draped in a pair of arms, is Salai, that little devil, with the look of a sleeping boy on his closed-eyed face.

It had taken so long for the two to stop bickering between each other, though Leonardo knows Ezio cares for the entertaining brat that is Salai, and Salai cares for the entertaining, handsome man that is Ezio. It is moments like these Leonardo wants to paint, to preserve so that he can remember them forever, remember these two as they are with the secrets of their hearts open. Ezio without the rigid composure of his Assassin nature, and Salai without a trace of wickedness anywhere.

_Hypnos bestow upon you both more time in Sleep_, he thinks as he quietly procures parchment and thinned charcoal. And he draws them, as they are now, immortalized forever in the scratches of black on rough paper.


	9. Voyeur

He kisses Salai on the smooth skin of the lower back, kisses the crest of Salai's shoulder blade, kisses the heated back of Salai's neck. A low, gasping keen rolls out of Salai as they move. Salai's knuckles are white as his fingers tangled into the sheet. "Oh!" the boy gasps, followed by a rumble of noise in his throat.

And he touches Salai's young body, exploring the skin like and yet so different from his own. Is this what the artist saw? Salai's peachy flesh, flushed, in comparison to the olive battleground of his own. The furrow of Salai's brows, with eyes closed, when he hits that one spot inside the boy. The way Salai's toes curled when he squeezes Salai, strokes Salai, teases Salai.

He wants Salai to beg for it, to beg for more because it is Salai who is always stealing, always lying to his friend, but he finds himself begging, too, in his own way. Begging for the begging, begging for another tease from Salai, another moan, another arch.

Leonardo watches from a chair nearby, a hungry look in his eye.


	10. Toil and Trouble

Salai looped his arms around Filippo and Vittorio's neck. Being the eldest (in physical, numerical age, mind you), Salai was always the one of the three with terrible ideas. "That guy—he has been trying to fuck that girl for a month." Salai looked between the two Assassin apprentices.

"Salai," said Filippo, "you're not—"

"Do you think," interrupted Vittorio, "he would be mad if someone stole his purse in the middle of their lovemaking?"

Salai grinned, but Filippo was eyerolling.

"I like the way you think, Vivi," said Salai, looking again at the alley from their place across the street.

"_Mentore _is going to kill us," Filippo said.

Vittorio nudged the fellow Assassin. "When has that ever stopped you?" he asked, and Salai took him up on the offer by nodding. "You know you would enjoy seeing a Templar's dick hurt."

After a few seconds, Filippo sighed, and that noise was all the other two needed for a _yes_. Scurrying into action, they dragged one another closer to the smooching couple in the back alley. Things were becoming heated; the girl was moaning, top nearly peeled from her neck, and the man was grinding crudely between her legs with his head hidden in her bust.

Vittorio nudged Filippo again, and the Assassin readied the crossbow as steadily as possible. The three of them waited, hidden, with baited breath.

"If you hit his ass," Salai whispered, "we will forgive you." And Vittorio had to cover his mouth so he wouldn't cackle aloud.

The couple continued restlessly. Filippo, as unmoving as he could, squinted his eye in order to focus the arrow's shot. The last thing he wanted to do was hit the man dead-center, causing a tremendous uproar that would make their escape much harder. After a minute or so of good eyeballing, Filippo lightly fingered the trigger, and the arrow whizzed through the air right by the man's waist, snagging the bulging purse there and not only throwing it off down the alley, but spilling every single ounce of florin in it. The man snarled, the woman gasped, and then the Templar villain ran after the mysteriously slung purse.

In a heartbeat, the group of three was leaned against the wall around the lady trying to modestly cover herself back up. They looked entirely too smug with themselves, and, in doing so, it gave them a good amount of charm with the young girl.

"You're too pretty for a Templar turd, _Madonna_," said Vittorio, supported by his arm on the building's wall.

"While my friend often misses the mark of honesty, this time his truth I will vouch for," added Filippo on the opposite side of the other apprentice.

Salai, though, was just turning around from collecting some scattered florins. "A woman's greatest asset is her virtue," Salai said sagely. "I hope you wouldn't spread your legs for something as low as a Borgia dog." And he dropped one of the florins down the bust line of the girl's shirt, causing her to squeak and giggle.

In the distance of the alley, a man's voice boomed, "You pagan heathens!" The rather livid man from before was hobbling at them in a rush. "I will slit the neck of every one of you when I get my hands on you! Thieves!"

"Uh-oh," said Vittorio, jerking up from the wall.

"Well," Filippo said as the three of them turned for the alley's entrance in great hurry. "Let's make more haste than Vittorio's mother's mouth did last night." A short, sharp "Hey!" of protest was earned from Vittorio, but the three of them were much too busy howling in laughter and running to brawl about a slander against a mother.


	11. Teacher's Pet

Fingers bunched into Salai's shirt, shoving him harshly against the wall. Francesco's face was scrunched in anger, in irritation. Salai was grinning.

"Stop stealing from Master," Francesco hissed warningly.

The grin didn't leave Salai's face. "Being a teacher's pet again?" he sneered. "Loving every minute the master praises you for your hard work, your policing?"

Francesco gritted his teeth.

"How good does his cock taste?" Salai asked in a whisper near the other apprentice's face. "How do his lips taste around your dick? Do you like his fingers, the way he fucks you in the storage room?"

Slowly, Francesco swallowed. The anger on his face melted away into shock. "You were spying," he said accusingly.

"I didn't have to spy with how loud you were being," spit Salai. "I hope you enjoy it, enjoy his sex and praise. I'm still his favorite. He only fucks you when I'm not around. He thinks of me when he's touching you."

"Silence your mouth," Francesco warned, but that only made Salai grin harder. "You will not speak of Leonardo that way. You will be grateful he still puts up with you, still allows you to live here after all you've done."

"He wouldn't get rid of me or he would have already, so your threats are useless"—here, Salai's voice slowed—"Fran-ces-_co_." A spark of mischief came to Salai's eyes, and he snaked his arms around Francesco's waist. His lips hovered by Francesco's own. "Are you jealous of me, Franny? Do you want to touch Leonardo's _Il Salaino_, too? Do you want to know how _my_ mouth feels?"

Annoyed, Francesco shoved Salai away. His face twisted with rage. "Keep your mouth shut," he hissed. "I don't play your games."

"Oh?" And Salai stretched against the wall like a relaxing cat. "You're hard."

Once he snapped a glance down, Francesco hastily turned away. His face burned with embarrassment, and Salai was cackling lowly behind him.

"I've seen you watching us," continued Salai, "seen the look on your face like you wanted to touch yourself. It wasn't only _Maestro_ you were wanting…"

Under his breath, Francesco said, "Fuck you," and then quickly stalked off for the door of the workshop, leaving Salai behind to look smug and satisfied.


	12. Il Lupo

Il Lupo was a character, Salai thought. The man lived up to that namesake: a Templar who was a part of a pack, but who hunted alone, cold, calculating, baring fangs if the need arose. And Salai was intrigued. The Wolf was quiet, but Salai found the man would talk if petted, if tempted with a treat.

Salai thought it was interesting, thought it was funny that Il Lupo could be both killer and human, that Il Lupo disliked being touched, that Il Lupo was both subservient and independent. He had never met any other man who worked the blade and the wheat field, who was useless without a master but worked alone, who hated a touching hand yet leaned into it.

If it was anyone else besides Il Lupo, Salai would have been insulted to be compared to a woman.

"It's unnerving," Il Lupo told him in that husky voice, uncertain. "You are like a woman, too cunning for a man, and your hands are softer than a courtesan's own."

"Because," he replied with a grin, "courtesans are stroking cock all day. I'm an artist, a model. That is why I roll dice as a hobby and not rub stiff men. I can easily prove to you that I am a man, I assure you."

Later, Il Lupo didn't seem to be complaining about soft, womanly hands when trying hard to get Salai to pet him.


	13. Fox and Geese

"You cannot trick a fox, Little Devil," says La Volpe.

Salai just grins and folds his arms behind his back. "You did not say no, so are you implying that, though I cannot fool you, you will participate?"

La Volpe crosses his arms, frowns. Machiavelli and Ezio exchange looks, smiling in amusement.

"I suppose…" La Volpe says reluctantly.

Hours later, La Volpe is in nothing but his pants and his boots. On the other hand, Salai at least has his flowing undershirt, despite being shoeless. The two of them are looking determined, competitive, La Volpe more irate than anything. The man had a reputation to uphold—The Fox—and it would look mighty bad losing to a scrawny, effeminate artist apprentice. Ezio and Machiavelli are both sitting back, watching, highly pleased by the game. Machiavelli continually makes remarks about how 'common' men entertain themselves, but it's obvious that he is enjoying the pressure on La Volpe's shoulders. Ezio may have been hooting if he wasn't old, wasn't tired.

"Your mother wasn't saying that last night," Salai says as he tosses the dice.

Machiavelli snorts, and La Volpe says, "Hard to believe those words seeing as how they come from one who rides the stallion and not the mare."

Salai pauses, puts his foot out on top of the dice before La Volpe can pick them up even. "What?" and Salai mocks misunderstanding. "Excuse me? I like women," and then he asks quickly, "Who said I do not like women?" He turns a pointed, narrow-eyed gaze at Ezio. The Assassin smiles, but shrugs a pair of broad shoulders.

"No one," says La Volpe, fisting the foot so that it is gone as fast as it got there. He takes the dice up. "You give it away yourself," and he motions toward Salai. "_Ciao_, shirt," he says, showcasing the dice between his fingers, _you-lost-the-roll-and-must-remove-something_.

"How do I give it away?" asks Salai, taking the conversation as an opportunity to delay the fact he has to get rid of his shirt.

La Volpe sighs begrudgingly, as if saying he is old and playing around with children is the last thing he should be doing during his free time. "Look at yourself, little boy," he says. "Your outfit cost more to tailor than four of mine did. And I have never seen such a plump back end on a young man," he adds quickly before Salai can get a word in edgewise. "Your face has not a wrinkle, hands not a callous. And curls—what boy heats up iron rods his master crafted to curl his hair with like that?"

"One who rides a stallion," Machiavelli answers. La Volpe actually smiles, but Salai is giving Machiavelli a dirty glare.

"One who would, of course, coax me into a game where two men are removing their clothing," La Volpe adds, unamused. Salai offers the fox a sarcastic look of smugness, head wiggling as he rolls his eyes.

"Wait," Ezio pipes up from his quiet contemplation, confusion etching his brow. "I don't get it…"

All three other men groan terribly, and Ezio suddenly erupts into a throaty cackle. "Kidding," he says, flinching when one of Salai's shoes bounce off his arm from being thrown. "Kidding!"


	14. A Wolf At the Door

"There's a wolf," Leonardo said, "that's been hanging around by the door."

Salai looked back over his shoulders, and Leonardo gave him a pointed stare. "A wolf?" asked Salai, raising a brow.

"Yes," said Leonardo. "You wouldn't happen to know _why_, would you?"

There was a pause, long enough for Salai to run his tongue over his teeth below his lips. "No," he said finally, smiling his sweetest smile. "I haven't a clue."

It was the young hours of the morning when Salai shut the door of the workshop behind him, leaving himself consumed in the shadow of the quiet night outside. Across the street, a hooded figure lifted its head, and Salai couldn't help but to smirk. Slowly, Salai turned right and walked casually down the edge of the sidewalk. The hooded figure mimicked his actions on the opposite street, kept the same pace, the same stride. Salai stopped, and the figure did as well. All at once, Salai turned and darted off down an alleyway. The hooded figure, spurred by the thrill of 'hunting,' made chase and, to Salai's disappointment, was decidedly faster than an artist's apprentice. Salai went straight, and when he looked back to laugh at not being caught just yet, he found the street behind him deserted.

Curious uncertainty died in his throat as he turned his head back around. Arms, out of the darkness of the Italian streets, grasped him all around the middle, pinned him from moving though he was moving still, being dragged, being half-carried as if he were a feather off to the left. "I have you now," said a husky tenor, and Salai threw his hands up to push the hood away from the figure's head.

The Wolf. _Il Lupo_, with eyes shining as if they reflected the moon, hungry and playful. "Did the Borgia puppy come to play?" Salai asked with a purr.

Gently, the man leaned out to nuzzle Salai's jawline with a cheek. Il Lupo, Salai had found, had grown accustom to being touched, being petted by his soft hands and slender fingers. Before, Il Lupo had shied away, had flinched with apprehension at any kind of affectionate, even joking, advances. Now, it was easy for Salai to mold the Templar, mold the man like clay into whatever he wanted.

All it took was a massage of his hand between Il Lupo's legs—"No," a whisper from Salai—and the man dared to kiss him, starving, on the mouth. When Il Lupo pulled away, "He came for a treat," and Salai took the Templar into his palm.


End file.
